Matter of Truth, A
Read Matter of Truth, A Online
Authors: Heather Lyons
by
Heather
Lyons
* * *
*
Amazon
Edition
* * *
*
A
Matter of Truth
Copyright
© 2013 by Heather Lyons
Cerulean
Books
First
Edition
Cover
design by
Carly Stevens
Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
the above author of this book.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents
are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various
products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without
permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized,
associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Discover
other titles by Heather Lyons at
Amazon
To my mom,
who taught to me to read
and to love books at such a young age,
this one is for you.
I lift my hand up, shading my eyes as I peer at the loud and
heavy surf crashing onto the pristine white shoreline. Overhead, gulls scream
in a painfully bright blue sky, but even they are nearly drowned out by the
ocean’s anger. “You can’t be serious about going out there today.”
An inscrutable smile spreads across Jonah’s lips as he pulls
up the rest of his dark wetsuit. He reaches for the zipper, but I step around
him so I can slowly tug the tab upward. “I think a storm is coming in,” I tell
him, trailing my other hand up the metal path.
When his head tilts back to survey the cloudless sky, black
hair brushes against my fingers; a delicious shiver shakes my spine. I lean
forward, my arms going around his chest, so I can press my face against his
neck. His arms crisscross to wrap around mine, and we stand like this, watching
the waves continue their furious pounding of the shore for long minutes of
hushed unease. All too soon, he pulls away so he can pick up his surfboard.
Anxiety spreads throughout my belly; I reach out and trace
the length of his arm, aching to chase my fears away. “Promise me you’ll be
careful?”
His cerulean eyes are so sad when he studies me, a mute
accusation that asks me why I don’t trust him enough.
I do, though. Probably more than I trust any other person in
the entire universe.
His free hand cups the back of my head, drawing me in close.
I savor how my heart slams around in my chest when our lips meet, how my world
tilts when his tongue touches mine. I let myself drown in this kiss, and in
him.
I love this man, I think to myself.
It’s over too soon; he’s off into those wild, terrifying
waters. I trail him to the exact line where water fades to sand, holding my
breath as he duck dives under the blackening foam of a monstrous wave. I count
in my head to ten, then twenty . . . I get to fifty, one hundred, but Jonah has
yet to surface. I scan the horizon for his profile, but no one else is out
amongst these waves today. And then I scream his name until it becomes a second
heartbeat, yet my voice is alone on this beach.
In desperation, I tear away the waves until all that lies
before me is a dripping, sloped shelf riddled with gasping sea life. Jonah is
nowhere to be seen.
I race into the dying coastline, bare feet shredding against
sunken rocks and broken shells, but I can’t find him anywhere. Hours are spent
searching, but there’s nothing, no one. Just a silent, dead former ocean I’ve
created in my panic.
I’ve lost him
.
In my agony, I let the world around me explode.
Dammit, I missed the bus.
As I hurry down the nearly empty street, I attempt to shake
the lingering aftereffects of yet another nightmare that pulled me so far under
I only awoke when a neighbor pounded against our shared wall, shouting for me
to turn off my alarm clock. It wasn’t the first time this has happened, and I
doubt it’ll be the last. Nowadays, my dreams are never kind to me, and along
with all-too frequent blackouts, they wreak havoc upon my work schedule.
I’m an hour late for my shift at the Moose on the Loose, and
although the owner loves me like I’m his kid sister and won’t fire me (let
alone write me up), I hate abusing his generosity. Being late to work is
something I’m not okay with. Most days, I’m painfully early; routine, even that
of a job, proves to be a healing balm. I allow myself to sink into the lull of
going through the motions of working in a diner, perfecting them until I feel
comfortable in my skin.
Elusive as those moments are, and as brief as they can be, I
chase after them with everything in me.
Waiting for me outside the Moose, coatless despite the
bitter weather and holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, is a welcome
sight. Or, maybe not, since Will’s glaring at me with the equivalent of an
unwelcome
I told you so
.
I kiss my hand and pat my butt.
“Why you are so insistent on taking the bus instead of
letting me drive you to work continues to boggle my mind,” he tells me, his
sexy Glaswegian accent diluted by a mere five years in Alaska. And then, in an
awful facsimile of an American accent, a good octave above mine,
“What kind
of girl am I if I can’t get to work on my own, Will?”
He tsks-tsks. “I have
an answer for you—a tardy one.”
I brush past him, wrenching the door to the diner open.
“Smart-assery is not your most attractive quality.”
He laughs, and even though laughing is not something I can
easily do anymore, I adore listening to his. It’s like somebody bottled up
happiness, and it’s hooked up inside him, so whenever he wants, he can just let
some loose to infect the people around him. “I beg to differ. In any case, as
you’ve missed most of your shift already, we decided to best utilize your
talents at the bowling alley rather than servicing patrons.”
Even though I know he’s kidding, I still wince. “I’m an hour
late. I hardly call that missing most my shift.”
Inside the diner, Paul—the owner-slash-dishwasher of the
Moose—is leaning against the counter, flipping through a motocross magazine. He
looks up when the bell over the door sings. “There’s our girl.” I’m gifted with
one of his earnest smiles. “You had us worried. Everything okay?”
I wonder what he’d think of me if I were to ever answer that
question honestly.
I glance around the diner—it’s a ghost town. Not a single
customer is to be seen. I’m taken aback, as I’ve never witnessed the Moose so
empty. “I am so sorry, Paul. My alarm clock sucks. I’ll buy a new one tomorrow.
I promise this won’t be a problem again.”
Acting like my missing an hour of work is nothing of
consequence, he comes over and hugs me. Paul Neakok gives the best bear hugs,
ones that can nourish even a soul like mine, especially when everything in me
feels like it’s being sucked down into a black hole.
Like today. Like every day nowadays. Four months’ worth of
black hole days.
“I believe you. Don’t worry about it, Zoe-girl. Did I ever
tell you how I was late to my sister’s wedding? By something like forty
minutes. Worse yet, I had the rings with me. I thought my
aaga
was going
to skin me alive, but—maybe it was all the pre-celebration champagne, she just
laughed. Mothers, right?” His grin spreads all the way to his nearly black
eyes. “If I can get away with that, you can get away with oversleeping a
little.”
See? Way too generous. “But—”
“Ginny was loads happy you were late.” Will stuffs wrapped
straws into an old-fashioned glass dispenser. “She’s itching to buy a new
phone, so she could use the extra cash.”
It’s not like I’m exactly hurting for money myself right
now, but the money I’ve got hidden in my room back at the boarding house is
coated in guilt and hard to keep using.
I guess theft can do that to a girl.
I sigh and unwrap my scarf, only to have Will reach over and
press his hand against mine. “No need. Like I said. Bowling. Us. Now.”
Paul flips his baseball cap backwards and rubs his closely cropped
beard. “We sent Gin ahead to pick up Frieda so they can get us a lane at the
alley.”
I suck at bowling. SUCK. Which is why they probably love
playing with me—I’m the guaranteed loser. “Not to be a whiner or anything, but
I kind of need the tips, guys.” And pride. I’d love to keep what’s left of my
pride tonight, thank you very much.
Paul opens the cash register and takes out several twenties.
“Ask and ye shall receive.”
I refuse to take them. “Paul. C’mon.”
“Who’re you expecting to get tips from?” Will steps in front
of me, straightening my scarf. “Ghosts? Zo, the diner is closed, lest you
haven’t noticed.”
I sigh. The Moose on the Loose Diner actually does pretty
well on most days. Tonight is clearly dead, yes, but Paul certainly isn’t
hurting. But I like earning my money, so even though he hands the bills off to
Will, who slips them into his pocket to pawn off on me later, I resolve to work
overtime on my next shift and not clock in for it.
While Paul is locking up, Will shoves a cup of java into my hands,
already prepared the way I like it. A small smile breaks free before I sip the
warm brew; the motion feels foreign, but good.
I wish I could smile more often. Real smiles are so hard to
come about anymore; I’d give my left foot to be able to feel pleasure without
it being extraordinary or alcohol-induced. But if I’m going to smile, it’s
usually because Will coaxes one out of me.
“This is good,” I tell him.
He’s affronted. “Of course it is. I made it.”
It’s a moment in which I want to laugh. Really laugh.
Because that’s so Will: egotistical, generous, and hot-hot-hot all rolled into
one. Instead, I smile a bit more, relishing the sensations these small muscle
movements incur.
“I know I probably say it too much, but you should smile
more often, Zoe.” One of his fingers touches the corner of my mouth, but before
I can say anything, he pulls it away and shows me excess foam from my latte.
“Because, you’re lovely when you do.”
Not because he’s telling me I’m beautiful or anything, but I
love this guy. Seriously, flat-out adore him. Fate has nothing to do with me
and Will, and I like it that way. Even still, I can’t dismiss the guilty twinge
that plucks through me whenever he calls me Zoe
.
But then, Will Dane
doesn’t know me by any other name than Zoe White, which is the worst alias
ever. Four months ago, when I fled everything I knew and who I was, it wasn’t
like my brain was firing on all cylinders. I have a slew of paperwork I created
for myself with various pseudonyms, but when it came time to fill out the job
application for the Moose, I ended up using the one that sounds too much like
my real name. I was terrified that if I chose one of the others, I might never
get used to acknowledging people when they spoke to me. Zoe White seemed doable
after nearly twenty years of being Chloe Lilywhite.
“I’m working on it,” I say, despite knowing it’ll take a
miracle for what he wants to happen.
A miracle or giving up. Due to heavy stakes, and more
importantly, the well being of those I love most in all the worlds, I’d rather
attempt a miracle.
He loops an arm around my shoulders and walks me out to
where his truck is parked in the back; Paul stays behind to finish locking up,
saying he’ll meet us in twenty. I fiddle with the heat once we’re on the road,
turning it up full blast. “Do we have to go bowling tonight?”
There’s that laughter of his again. I pray I can get a
contact high from it. “If we don’t, Frieda will concoct some kind of story
about how we ran off to get married.”
My heart constricts painfully, but I manage to keep my face
calm. “Why does she have such a hard time accepting our friendship?”
He reaches over and pats my knee. “Because she’s Frieda.”
Another moment I wish I could laugh. A tiny exhale escapes
me, which is the closest I’ve gotten in awhile; I revel in the simplicity of
this release. Leaning back into the heated leather seats of his truck, I stare
at the sign Will taped on the dashboard a couple of weeks ago as a joke, when
Ginny kept complaining she never got to ride shotgun anymore.
Zoe’s spot.
Not for sale
.
He flips through the radio stations until he finds a country
song he likes. “Stay over tonight?”
Relief fills me up. It’s exactly what I hoped he’d ask, even
though I’ve been the one stubborn about moving in already. “OK.”
His lopsided grin flashes at me as he sings along to the
song playing. I join in, and the urge to laugh has never been so strong in
months. We sound ridiculous—neither of us are naturally talented singers. But
together? We take awful to a whole new level, and it’s glorious.
Will is my drug of choice nowadays. I’m utterly addicted.
Ginny has pitchers of soda and beer
already waiting for us, plus a stack of plastic cups. She’s also got enough
chili cheese fries to feed a small army. “Zooooeee!” I’m tackled into a hug.
“Tonight’s the night! I just know it!”
Poor, hopeful yet deluded girl. Ginny Swanson is the eternal
optimist of this group, ever smiling, ever bubbly, kind of ditzy, yet in
possession of the biggest heart I’ve ever come across. I can’t help but always
feel grateful for meeting her; had I not, I never would’ve gotten the job I
did. Having this job, meeting these people, is what saves me every single day
from throwing the towel in.
I sit down and shuck my shoes off. “Gin, the day I get a
strike is the day I win the lottery.”
“Could happen.” Paul reaches across me to grab a cheese
covered fry. He somehow miraculously beat us to the bowling alley. “You just
have to play.”
Frieda Carthage slaps at my hands the moment I grab one of
my rental shoes. “Put that gross thing down.” She smiles, her lips blood red
against pale skin, a perfect cross between her namesake and a vampire. “We got
you a gift, girlfriend.”